Claude's Confession and Other Early Novels of Émile Zola. Ðмиль ЗолÑ
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When they had discovered a small opening among the bushes they stopped to take breath, chatting like old comrades. But she noticed that Daniel would never sit down. Whilst his companion rested a few minutes he kept standing. He had practised climbing the trees to look for birds’ nests. But if Jeanne took compassion on the poor little things’ fate, he climbed up again and replaced them in their nests in the high branches.
The return home was delightful. They lingered under the arches of the leaves where it was quite dark. The freshness of the air became penetrating; the leaves of the willows softly rustled as they brushed against their clothes. The calm water was like a mirror of brown steel. And Daniel, when he had prolonged the journey as long as possible, wanted at last to leave the island.
Then, as the Seine stretched out before them, white as silver, for there was generally some daylight still left — a pale light of a soft, melancholy kind — Jeanne, seated at the bottom of the boat, would gaze over the surface of the water. The river seemed to her like another sky, into which the trees plunged their shadows. As the country round lay sleeping in a deep peace there would come, one knew not whence, a sound as of soft chanting, and all was solemn and tranquilising.
In this calm life he was leading a supreme peace had come to Daniel, and he forgot himself. He felt convinced that he was not born for preaching, and that the role of tutor did not suit him in any way. He knew how to love, that was all. When he called to mind that horrible winter when he had played such a ridiculous part, he suffered terribly. How happy he was now, living in hope and the solace of his affection.
In this manner he occupied himself neither with the past nor the future. It sufficed him to see Jeanne running about among the grass, delighting in the solitude of the islets, showing him at all times an openhearted friendship. In his opinion all was going well: the present time was good; the young girl was forgetting the evil excitements of the past. The pure country air had made him feel younger again himself, for round about him he saw, as it were, a vast expanse of love.
All through the summer he lived in a glorious confidence. He had not a word of rebuke for Jeanne, not even a harsh look. In his eyes all she did was well done, and he discovered pretexts as excuses for her bad moments. The truth was that the mere presence of the young girl threw him into such ecstasies that the perception of the real state of things was taken away from him.
When she was there in the boat he felt a delicious feeling of happiness in the depths of his being. He longed ardently for the hour when they started out on their expeditions; and in order to keep her near him for long he discovered lengthy excursions that they ought to make. At that time he found her so lovely and good that he felt bitter remorse at having tormented her so. Never again would he scold her.
So the summer went by in hope. Not once had he given up his part of indefatigable and foreseeing protector and guide; and she had ended by accepting him merely as a playmate, whose good nature she could impose upon with the tyranny of a child.
The day before their departure for Paris Daniel and Jeanne wished to go and bid goodbye to the island. They started off together and wandered long in and out of the little arms of the river. The autumn had set in; yellow leaves gently glided down the stream, and the wind sighed in a melancholy way through the denuded branches. It was a sad excursion. It was beginning to get cold. The young girl drew a shawl she had thrown over her shoulders, more tightly about her; she did not talk but gazed at the poor reddened foliage and found it very ugly. Daniel, still confident, gave himself up freely to the charm of this last excursion, without even giving a thought to that terrible Paris, looming straight before him.
When they left the islets, they perceived in the distance three persons who were waiting for them on the banks. They recognised Monsieur Tellier by the enormous black shadow he cast on the green lawn. The other two persons were doubtless visitors, whose features they could not yet distinguish. Then as the boat drew near the shore, great uneasiness took possession of Daniel. He recognised the visitors and wondered what they could want at Mesuil Rouge. Jeanne, jumping lightly out on to the grass, exclaimed: “Why, if it is not Monsieur Lorin and my father!”
She went and embraced Monsieur de Rionne, and then directed her steps towards the chateau in the company of Lorin, who made her laugh boisterously with his Paris news.
Daniel remained alone on the banks, desolate, with tears in his eyes, clearly seeing that his happiness was dead.
In the evening, after dinner, Lorin accosted him, and with a mocking air of superiority, said to him: “How well you row, my dear fellow. I should never have thought, to look at you, that you had such strong arms. I am much obliged to you for having taken Jeanne out all the summer season.”
And as Daniel looked at him with surprise, on the point of rejecting his thanks: “You do not yet know,” added he in a whisper, “that I have quite decided to commit the folly I spoke to you of.”
“What folly?” asked Daniel, in a suffocating voice.
“Oh, a lovely and good folly.... She has not a sou, and she will dip terribly into my purse.... I am marrying Jeanne.”
Daniel looked at him, stupefied. Then he went up to his room without finding a word to say.
CHAPTER XI
LORIN had been anxiously meditating during the past ten months whether he ought to marry Jeanne or not. It was in this way that this clever man committed his gross follies.
He was not precisely in love, but the young girl had captivated him, and turned his head by her proud grace and amusing raillery. He believed that such a wife would do him honour, setting aside the fact that she would open wide the doors of good society to him. He pictured her on his arm, and his vanity was most deliciously tickled. Then, without his heart having any part in the matter, he began to have a selfish longing for her.
However, he felt he would have to pay a high price to gratify that longing, and he had fought against it for some time. Little by little he came to calculating what expense he should be put to — how much he could get in return for such a purchase. He put down every detail in figures, he covered a whole sheet of paper with additions and multiplications, and the total horrified him.
After that he pondered a little. He cut down the figures, and ended by convincing himself that Jeanne, dear as she must cost him, was yet within reach of his purse. He waited another full month, hesitating, and pondering as to whether he would not do better in seeking a wife who would enrich instead of impoverish, may be, his exchequer. Love born of vanity only is just as tenacious as that springing from the heart. Lorin, feeling that he was growing weaker in his resistance, made excuses on the ground that, after all, he had a sufficient fortune, and that he could very well afford to please his fancy. He argued with himself that he must be mad, yet all the time he was railing at himself he went off to find Monsieur de Rionne. He well knew that that gentleman was ruined, but the die was cast.
“Monsieur,” he explained on arrival, “I am come to see you about an important matter. I trust you will be pleased to accede to my request.”
Monsieur